Minnie at the gym...
Miss Minnie's middle seems to be closing in on maxi, and so after careful consideration, I am now a card-carrying member of a gym.
A gym is a funny place, not a ha-ha funny, but a curious place that brings out sometimes the best, sometimes the worst, in women. I selected an all-women's gym because I've gone this route before years ago and it was nothing short of humiliating to try to work off my wingspans while a guy built like a tick is heaving and ho-ing and ugh-ing and arrrr-ing while he strains to lift much more weight than a human, tick-built or not, ought to lift. Besides, they had mirrors all over the place. I'm paying big money so that someday I WON'T have to look at this body, so don't force me to look at it jiggle in all the wrong places as I resemble a contortion artist going through the motions of "working out" as the loose skin performs an act much like a clapper in a brass bell swings for awhile after the bell's done ringing. The former gym was also situated on one of the busiest streets in town with the treadmills right in front of the storefront windows, so that every passerby could ridicule the fatties while their rears played tag with the backs of their knees.
So, for me it's all women this time around and the windows are nicely tinted. There are a variety of women who make daily appearances at this gym. Short and tall and fat and thin…that's right, thin! So, what are they doing at the gym? I think the gym owners pay these people and plant them next to the fatties as motivators and to make us believe that there is an end result in sight. They're probably the kind of women who can eat a double whopper and fries and top it off with an M&M McFlurry down the road and never look back. Life's not fair.
And I mentioned how the gym sometimes brings out the worst in us. Case in point: I actually enjoy seeing someone much bigger than I am working out across from me. Does something for my ego…my thoughts immediately go to, "Well, it could be worse….watch this, honey…" And then I try to show off by pulling a little more weight than I'm capable of lifting. And I'm panting by now, but trying to look nonchalant as my nostrils are flaring and my carotid artery is about to explode out of my neck. Of course, just about the time I get cocky about not being quite the fattie in comparison, one of those paid size 6 things climbs aboard the machine right next to me and puts me back in my proper puffy place… I wanna slap her. I haven't yet. I'm waiting for the one who'll tell me she's trying to get in shape for Christmas. Right…me too, and it'll happen right after I raise the Titanic.
I noticed the other day that all the women's achievements are posted on the wall, names and pounds lost and inches lost and even body fat lost…kind of a wall of fame or former shame. I'm really hoping I have an option not to have my accomplishments (or defeats) posted for the world to see. I was kind of hoping for a Hollywood star by now, not an 8x10 piece of construction paper with magic marker smiley faces!
Not that I won't take pride in my losses (should I ever have any). It's just that I consider it a personal thing. I suppose it's better than an 8x10 up at the Post Office, but given the choice, I believe I'll keep my accomplishments (or lack of) to my own pudgy self. Wouldn't you?
Comments
- -- Posted by goat lady on Thu, Nov 8, 2007, at 10:18 PM
- -- Posted by Ducky on Sun, Nov 11, 2007, at 8:31 AM
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